The Finding of Gold
by Rector
Summary: A Mycroft Holmes/Dark materials crossover which appeared from nowhere, yet absolutely insisted on being written down even though I was in the middle of writing something else. As I've never read Pullman's novels, I have no clue where this came from, but there we are. Nothing to do with higher reasoning at all.


**The Finding of Gold**

Mycroft Holmes was sitting in a deep armchair in one of the many spare and unoccupied rooms in Charles Youngham's somewhat run-down medieval manor, Croften Hall. The British weather had held beautifully for almost the entire month of June until precisely thirty minutes ago when the midsummer outdoor party had suddenly become a midsummer _indoor_ party. It was now raining so heavily, that the scene outside was more reminiscent of an equatorial monsoon than a West Berkshire thunderstorm. It had been all well and good while everyone was meandering around Croften's expansive gardens, sipping champagne and discussing the shrubberies; a relatively simple matter, in fact, to remain on the quiet fringe of things. But then the heavens had opened, forcing everyone to scurry inside, and now there was no escaping the sheer volume of _people_. Sir Charles Youngham and his good lady Joanna lacked nothing as the perfect hosts, even though they were more his parent's friends than his own. Mycroft found himself pressured into attending when his parents could not and he was finding the effort it took him to smile and respond politely to inconsequential small-talk as enervating as an all-nighter in a combative and acrimonious Defence committee session. He'd opt for the committee meeting if he had the slightest choice. Walking around, admiring the spacious gardens was one thing, cramped up inside in one big and slightly shabby room was entirely another. _Mingling_ wasn't exactly his thing, even though he had a fount of socially-acceptable platitudes ready to spring forth at the first hint of a potential conversation. It hadn't taken him long therefore, to inch away from the main gathering, surreptitious glass of malt scotch in one hand, pilfered book in the other, hunting for somewhere quiet and secluded where he might avoid the worst of the fray. Down several long and uneven passages, a few sharply angled turns and ... the small parlour with the large unlit fireplace suited him perfectly. Of the two massive old armchairs facing each other across a small occasional table, he had taken the one on the left.

Artis had taken the one on the right, her long, heavy talons gripping the thick brocade fabric of the seat cushion while she stared around, as curious about this unimportant and unused space as she had been about the enormous refectory where the main body of the gathering was now taking place. She was a big bird, significantly larger than most of her kind, a fact she put down to her extra intelligence. Such a powerful mind, as she often remarked, demanded an equally powerful body to carry it around. Undecided whether to hop around the room to see what there might be to investigate and possibly take apart with her clever claws and beak, or simply to stay put where she was and catch a nap, Artis stretched out one of her long black wings until it hung well over the arm of the chair, where she let it dangle. There was no danger here; she could afford a few unguarded moments. She closed her eyes in a slow blink and reconsidered the possibility of a nap.

Until the light footsteps of a running human heading directly towards the little room flicked them open again. Mycroft likewise paused in the reading of the purloined hardback, staring across at his daemon as she sat in the armchair, his dark blue eyes meeting her shining black ones. "It appears we are not the only ones to make a dash for freedom," he murmured, softly, turning his head to stare at the almost-closed door.

Which swung open moments later, allowing a woman to throw herself swiftly inside the room, waiting until an overgrown housecat with even larger feet tumbled in after her, before closing the ancient door as silently and as quickly as she could, sliding a long iron bolt quietly home. If someone outside tried to get in, the bolt was more than sufficiently strong to keep them out, short of them actually knocking the door down. Resting her back against the door itself, the woman had her eyes closed tight and she seemed to be holding her breath. The sound of heavier footsteps outside came closer and she tensed, eyes flying wide, only then realising she wasn't alone in the room. Alarmed at seeing Mycroft turning around in his chair, staring at her, she put a finger to her lips and mouthed the word _please_.

Artis was more interested in the woman's daemon than the woman herself, since it appeared to be an outsized, dark-spotted golden housecat. As the approaching footsteps paused outside and the latch rattled, the cat stood slowly, circling to face the old wooden door.

" _Abigale?_ " A man's voice, slightly muffled, slightly drunk, sounded immediately outside.

Falling into a distinctly menacing crouch, the cat spread his paws wide, arched his back and bared sharp teeth until they glinted in the light from the several small lamps in the room. Whoever it was beyond the door would do very well not to make it inside.

The latch rattled again, before the footsteps slowly turned and made back off the way they'd come. As soon as all sound had completely faded from earshot, the woman relaxed, heaving a loud sigh of relief. "Thanks for not giving us away," she said, still leaning against the door behind her. "Leo's had a little too much to drink and is being particularly annoying tonight," she added, bending down to scratch the crown of the cat's head. "Galian here has been threatening to bite his ear off if he came any closer, though that would probably cause us more problems than Leo," she laughed softly. "Sorry," she added. "I'm forgetting my manners. The name's Abby," she said, walking over, hand outstretched. "Abby Jones, and this is Galian," she added, waving at the cat.

Standing, Mycroft decided that neither the woman nor her daemon were likely to offer any threat, something he tended to gauge now as a matter of course every time he met a stranger. In his line of work, it was always better to be safe rather than sorry; being _sorry_ was often something of a very permanent nature, these days.

"Mycroft Holmes," he responded, shaking her hand. "And Artis," he indicated his raven who was still half-sprawled over the arm of the chair. "I rather fancied a little solitude myself."

"And we've spoiled it for you," Abby made a guilty face. "Sorry, but I preferred not to make a scene in the middle of everyone and Galian was almost ropeable, so we simply had to get out of the party for a while. We'll just stay for five minutes and then go," she said. "With luck, I should be able to avoid Leo until I can cadge a lift back into town."

Tempted though he was to accept her offer, Mycroft felt the rumblings of chivalry creak into life. "I wouldn't dream of you feeling you had to leave, so of course you must stay as long as you wish," he smiled awkwardly. "You have as much right to be in here as Artis and I," he added, turning to the big black bird. "And I will shortly be able to offer you a seat," he said meaningfully as he stared down at the black eyes of his daemon. "Won't I?"

Muttering quietly under her breath, the big raven slowly retracted her wing and hopped to the floor, walking over to where the cat was now sitting, taking everything in. Assessing the animal from the tips of his black tufted ears down to the wide pads of his overlarge paws, Artis leaned forward, curious. "You're an odd-looking sort of housecat."

Drawing himself up to his full seated height, the animal scowled across at the bird, almost tall enough to meet his gaze level, eye to eye. "I'm a Lynx," Galian bared his teeth in a little grin, trying to sit a fraction taller in order to look down at the raven. "A vicious and predatory hunter who quite enjoys catching things, actually," he added, his grin widening. "Birds happen to be my favourite prey."

"Bit on the small side for a lynx, aren't you?" Artis stood tall too, her height easily equal to that of Galian's shoulder.

"I prefer to consider myself nimble and light-footed," Galian lifted his head, looking imperiously down his velvety brown nose through half-lidded eyes. "Unlike some overgrown and frankly corpulent crow who would clearly find it hard to get off the ground from a standing start," he added nastily.

" _Crow?_ " Artis stiffened. Nobody called her a crow.

"Or maybe a bloated vulture ..." Galian snickered.

"Oh stop," Abby Jones turned her head as she sank into the seat that had recently held the bird-daemon. "Galian, there's no need to be rude, just because you're cross with Leo."

"Well, she started it," the lynx sniffed, turned his back on the raven and padded across to sit beside Abby's chair, facing the man seated opposite.

He was tall and dark-haired and immaculately suited in formal evening wear. He smelled wealthy and clever, which had the lynx's eyes immediately narrowing.

"I don't seem to be winning any popularity contests either," Mycroft observed as the cat's golden stare glared up at him.

"Well, that could be because you resemble Leo in some ways," Abby looked faintly embarrassed. "And I think Galian's had just about enough of men for the day," she shrugged. "The problem is, I actually came here with Leo, you see, which is one of the reasons he's being such an idiot. As soon as I can find one of my other friends, I'll persuade them to take me home and that'll be that."

Lifting his focus away from the still-glaring cat, Mycroft looked instead at the woman seated across from him, his first thought being how well-matched the pair were to each other; the cat's tawny grace a perfect complement to the human's general characteristics. They even lounged in a similar manner. Smartly dressed in an elegant natural linen frock, with suntanned legs ended in brown low-heeled sandals, the woman wore a man's watch on her right wrist, the plain light-brown leather strap sitting perfectly happily against golden skin. Other than a pair of diamond studs in her ears she wore no other jewellery that he could see. There was a thin-strapped bag, a small one, crossing her body diagonally ... lord only knew why women used such things; it was far too small to be functional ... mid-thirties; average height, average build, light brown hair, nothing spectacular or out of the ordinary, though she had very fine eyes he noticed; vividly clear, icy blue eyes which glowed in the lamplight. Eyes like the clear blue of Finnish glacier-water lakes, flawless and pure; incredibly deep and …

"How do you know Charles?" he asked abruptly. "Or are you a guest of Joanna? I confess I'm not much for parties, personally,"

"Charles and Joanna are my Godparents," Abby relaxed back into the chair, her fingers finding and resting on the top of Galian's head, scratching lightly until the cat closed his eyes and relaxed, leaning into her hand. "I was here umpteen times as a child, though not, to my knowledge, ever in this particular room." she said, twisting around to look around for the first time she she'd raced inside and bolted the door. Taking in the heavily-panelled walls, the low ceiling and the broad herringbone pattern of the wooden boards in the floor, worn smooth by the passage of many feet over many centuries, her eyes lighted rather particularly on the fireplace. More of an inglenook than a straightforward fireplace, the woman grew still as she absorbed the details. "Not have I ever seen _that_ before," she said, her emphasis unmistakable, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on the wide stone structure, the magnificently carved mantelpiece a bravura statement in oak and the carpenter's art.

"You like fireplaces?" Mycroft was oddly amused. He'd never seen anyone so suddenly absorbed by something so utterly mundane. At his tone, Artis looked up, before walking over and fluttering up onto the small table, her beady eyes glued just as suddenly to the edifice under observation. Anything that was different or in some way unusual, the raven found herself ineluctably drawn to the mystery. She'd not taken notice of the dimensions of the room other than to note its general smallness in relation to the fireplace itself, but now that the woman had actually drawn attention to the discrepancy, Artis found herself hopping further across the small table to get a closer look. Tipping her head to one side, the daemon saw that the fireplace was, in reality, hugely disproportionate for the shape and size of the parlour.

"It's a Baines, I'm sure of it," Abby stood slowly, stepping over to the side of the thing, her fingers outstretched to reach up and smooth along the thick engraved oak slab that stood in place of a mantlestone.

"Calum Baines; seventeenth-century Scottish architect, noted for his uncanny ability in the construction of undetectable priest holes and secret passages, long considered a Jacobite," Artis shuffled her wings until the primary feathers lay smooth and comfortable. "This place is certainly old enough for any of it," she added, looking around. "There's probably a few skeletons scattered around the foundations in any case."

Not to be left out of things and used, by now, to his human's unpredictable curiosity, Galian jumped into the newly-vacated chair, standing with both front paws resting on the arm closest to the fireplace, watching as Abby paced the length of the thing, fingertips trailing along the immense slab of wood. "Is it dangerous?" he asked, eyes glinting at the opportunity for unexpected exploration. "Is it something exciting we haven't done before?"

Mycroft laid his book down on the small table and frowned slightly. Not only had his peace and quiet been entirely shattered twice in the same evening, but now, completely and rather inconsiderately out of the blue, there appeared to be a potential mystery in the room. This was not how he had intended his evening to go.

"Surely, even if the fireplace was made by this Baines chap, not all of his designs contained such secrets?" he asked mildly. "You can't be completely sure this one does, can you?"

Ignoring the cool voice of reason, Abby was intent on following her inner sleuth. "I went to a public lecture once about the eccentricities of some of the old designers and builders in Britain," she announced, as she more carefully paced out the length of the fireplace, heel-to-toe; twelve feet, which was far too big for a small room like this. "The speaker showed us a kind of template for checking whether there might be something hidden," she added, staring closely at the solid lines of the thing directly in front of her. "Imagine there are three possible levels in the vertical plane," she said. "Starting right at the very back of the thing as the first level, then at the front of the mantelpiece as the second level, and the third is about out here," she said, coming to stand approximately a foot beyond the broad stone hearth. Turning, she realised the two chairs were going to be in her way. Moving the one that was currently home to an ear-twitching Galian, she also pulled the small occasional table several feet back, before standing upright and looking at Mycroft from beneath raised eyebrows. "Would you mind awfully?"

He held his seat. "I retreated in here to avoid having to be polite to people I didn't know and cared for even less, and now you have taken my book away and expect me to move furniture," he sounded more scandalised than peeved but sighed in exasperation and stood, lifting his chair away as Abby had done with its partner. "And now what?" he asked, folding his arms and surveying the scene with a mildly impatient air as Abby folded back a fine rug, revealing even more of the wooden floor beneath their feet.

With the space around the mysterious fireplace now free of any immediate obstacles, Abby stood directly in front of the thing, right at the centre point. "Now that we know to imagine the three vertical levels," she said, pointing with her fingers at the rear wall from floor to ceiling, the line at the front corner of the oak slab, also floor to ceiling, and then a point a couple of feet in front of her toes, "We also need to observe the horizontal plane," she added, resting both hands on her hips and looking engrossed.

"Which would be where?" coming to stand more nearly at her side, Mycroft, despite considering this entire activity to be an enormous waste of time and energy, admitted to feeling a little curious. Artis jumped off the table and flew up to stand on the oaken mantelpiece, her sharp eyes watching every movement Abby made.

"The first horizontal level would be the floor," she pointed downward. "The next is about waist-level and the third would be about as high as a man might reach," she said. "You're a man," she said, turning and looking Mycroft up and down. "Reach up high please, so we can see where that limit would be."

"Is she always this demanding?" from her high perch, Artis looked directly at the lynx in the chair who was following every move his human made.

"You have no idea," Galian grinned back. "You should see her when someone says she doesn't know how to do something," the cat rolled his eyes. "If looks could kill ..."

"Yes, I know that feeling quite well, actually," Artis flicked a quick glance at Mycroft's lightly frowning face as he looked between the woman and the fireplace and, scowling meaningfully at the large black bird, slowly lifted his left arm, holding his stiffened fingers stationary at the end.

"Perfect, great, thank you," Abby grinned, pleased. "And now the final plane, which is the linear, and sections off the entire construct into five separate compartments," she said, once again standing dead-centre before the fireplace itself. "There's the central section," she said, holding her hands out level with the middle of the thing. Then there's the two sides," she opened her arms wider. "And then there's the two flanking sections of it all," she added, opening her arms wider still. "And that's it," Abby smiled brightly. "All we have to do now is go through the grid, section-by section until we find the hidden trigger that opens the secret door."

"That's forty-five potential trigger sites," Mycroft, his hand still hanging in mid-air, frowned.

"Clever, as well as gallant," Abby smiled again. "But not all forty-five will contain potential triggers," she said, waving her hands through the thin air to one side of the fireplace. "Nothing here, for instance."

"And what would we even be looking for?" Mycroft sounded increasingly sceptical. "What might be considered a trigger this far out from the fire itself?" he looked down at the chevron floor-pattern. "Nothing appears to be out of place."

"There might be a couple of oddly-marked pieces of wooden mosaic in the floor, perhaps?" Abby stared downwards, as Galian jumped from the chair and began sniffing intensely at various spots on the ancient tiled pattern. He loved strange, exciting bits of machinery as much as his human loved old buildings.

Sounding thoroughly disappointed, the lynx shook his head and sat, waiting. "Nothing different that I can tell," he said. "Nothing metallic or mechanical, _sorry_."

"And there's nothing up here that looks odd, either," Artis had swivelled her head until her beak pointed up at the ceiling. "No funny-shaped knobs or hooks or anything up here that might stand out."

"In which case, the trigger will likely be on the main body of the fireplace itself," Abby rubbed her hands together, pleased. "Where shall we start?"

"Assuming there _is_ anything that might be a trigger on this manifestly over-engineered piece of antiquated masonry," Mycroft sounded a little weary. "Then the balance of probability would argue for it to be located on the right-hand side, rather than the left, given that the general population is approximately ninety percent dexter to ten percent sinister."

"Is he always this pompous?" seated on the floor between the two standing humans, Galian looked from one to the other, before addressing the raven still perched six feet from the ground on the thick oak slab.

"He has his moments," Artis shrugged, the way only a bird can. "It's one of his most endearing qualities, actually."

"Then let's start on the right," Abby smiled tightly, walking over to the right side of the huge inglenook.

Beginning from the furthest flanking sections to the far right of the fireplace and by unspoken agreement, Abby explored every inch of the thing she could reach with her fingertips up to the base of the mantelpiece, just as Mycroft did the same, only higher, both of them moving slowly in towards the centre. He noticed the woman had her eyes shut tight. It was impossible not to ask.

"Is there perhaps some deeply esoteric reason that makes you keep your eyes closed during this process?" he queried.

Pausing, her knees resting on a cushion, Abby looked up, grinning. "Try it," she suggested. "If you go by sense of touch, you'll feel things that you might not actually be able to see," she added. "Try it and you'll see what I mean."

Sighing inwardly, Mycroft nevertheless closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, the fingers of both hands reaching up on the right-hand side of the ornately-carved mantelpiece. Allowing them to slide even further back to the very rear edge of the surprisingly rough wooden slab, he was about to give it all up as a waste of time when he felt the distinct line of a thin piece of raised stone _behind the end of the slab_. There was no reason for the stone to be raised all the way at the back here; it served no obviously useful purpose, nor was it of a decorative nature since it was invisible, even at this proximity. It felt several inches long and perhaps just over an inch wide and roughly the same in height. He opened his eyes. "I believe I may have found something," he said, cautiously.

" _What?_ Where?" Artis scuttled across the mantelpiece at speed, her heavy claws skidding slightly as she lowered her black beak towards his stationary fingers, probing the shadowed place.

"You did? _Yes_! I can smell the metal ... it smells ... _old_ ," Galian was already trying to wriggle closer to the base of the fireplace to see, without actually touching Mycroft's legs, a feat that was not without its difficulties. Several times Mycroft felt the distinct press of a soft body against the hems of his trousers. He moved his feet a little further back, not wishing to give any cause for discomfort; one did not touch another's daemon.

"What does it do?" Still resting on her knees, Abby leaned back to meet Mycroft's eyes. "Does it move or anything?"

"Is it supposed to move?" Mycroft wasn't at all sure what he was expected to do, though the expression in those two brilliant blue pools focused on his face suggested that movement of some form might be a useful option. "I'll see," he said, leaning back into the hidden little space and locating the strangely-placed piece of stone. Finding the central spot with his thumb, he pressed hard. Though there was no sound or movement to confirm he was doing it right, he would have sworn he'd felt the thing _give_ a fraction. After all the years of undoubted inaction, perhaps it needed a little more vigorous persuasion. Leaning more of his bodyweight into the contact, he laid the whole of his hand down the length of the raised stone and shoved hard ... there was a definite movement. He shoved hard again ... and with a curious grating sound, the section of wall beside him, long and narrow though it was, cracked open like an old door. A chilly draft of damp air drifted out into the room; this was obviously far more than merely a priest's hole.

" _Oh_ ," Abby rose to her feet, fingertips pressed to her mouth, eyes round with surprise. "I hadn't really thought there would be one, you know," she said. "How clever of you to find it so quickly."

"Charles and Joanna will be most amused when they discover there's a secret door in their fireplace," Mycroft stood back, dusting his hands together carefully, before tugging the cuffs of his shirt back into place and straightening the wrinkles in his dinner jacket. "Perhaps you should go and let them know," he smiled, even as he began replacing the chairs in their previous spots and rolling back the rug with a dexterous prod of his polished black shoe.

Not only Abby, but Galian and Artis looked at him as if he'd suddenly grown a second head.

"You mean you don't intend to investigate it at all?" Abby searched his face for verification. "You're entirely happy simply to sit there with your book with a thrilling mystery like this less than ten feet away, and do nothing about it?"

"In a word, yes," Mycroft nodded easily, retaking his seat, opening his book and crossing his legs. "I've been more than helpful in doing everything you asked me to do, but now I think it's time I returned to my own version of a peaceful evening, if you don't mind," he smiled again. "Feel free to do as you wish," he waved a hand languidly in the air before picking up his glass of scotch and returning to his book.

"I will indeed," Abby nodded, looking around for anything that might serve as a light. There was a pair of old brass oil lanterns sitting on a sideboard and she shook one, hoping there might still be some oil inside. There was, but judging by the mostly empty sound of the sloshing contents, not much. Still, she probably wouldn't need all that much; she was only going to take a look, wasn't she? There were matches in the top drawer of the sideboard and she managed to light the wick after a few seconds of nothing much happening. Relieved she had some means of light, Abby clipped the lantern closed and turned back towards the secret door. Galian was already there, half his head stuck inside, his short tail flicking from side to side with the intensity of his excitement.

"Last chance," Abby stood with one foot on the ledge of the secret door, Galian winding himself around her bare legs in his impatience to step inside.

"Enjoy," Mycroft didn't look up from his reading.

The sounds of careful footsteps echoed softly for a few seconds before the sound changed into a descending scale. There was clearly a stairwell of some kind not far inside the door. Resolutely turning a page, Mycroft kept his attention on his book, growing increasingly aware of a feeling of intense dissatisfaction emanating from the top of the mantelpiece. Ignoring it, he turned another page and took a sip of scotch.

The sensation deepened. There was a meaningful cough.

"We should have gone with them, you know," Artis spoke meditatively. "We both know you wanted to go, so I'm at something of a loss as to explain why you didn't."

"Nothing to explain," Mycroft kept his eyes on the print. "Not my thing; something else we both know."

"But why not go?" the big raven fluttered down to land on the back of Mycroft's heavy armchair. "It's not like you'd be obligating yourself or anything ..." the bird paused, introspectively. "I even thought you liked her, the way you actually paid attention to everything she said and did everything she asked without the slightest hint of your usual aloofness," she added, fluffing her shining neck feathers into a gleaming, iridescent ruff before stilling, suddenly. Hopping down onto one of the chair's arms, Artis focused her eyes on her human's face. "A _ha_."

Sighing, Mycroft dropped the book into his lap. "Aha?" he met the bird's gaze and raised an eyebrow.

"You _did_ like her, didn't you?" the raven's beak opened in an avian form of a grin. "In fact not only did you like her, but you liked her so _much_ , you decided not to get involved because she was already hanging out with that Leo chap and you don't like messy situations," Artis nodded, smug in her inductive reasoning. "Coward."

"It is not being cowardly to prefer a lack of problematic emotional entanglements and unnecessary social awkwardness," Mycroft rested his cheek on raised fingers as his other hand stroked down his daemon's soft throat. "Abigale Jones is no doubt a thoroughly pleasant woman who will very likely enjoy a long life of adventure and mayhem," he added. "There is absolutely no need for either of us to get involved. Now may I please return to my reading?"

Staring at him with narrowed eyes, Artis was about to wash her talons of it all when a piercing cry for help echoed up from the still-open secret door.

In an instant, Mycroft was out of the chair, had grabbed the second lamp up from the sideboard in one hand and scooped the raven forcefully under the other arm. He had stepped through the narrow door and into a profound blackness almost before the sound of Abby's cry had completely died away.

" _Abigale?_ " he shouted, struggling to light the lantern's wick one-handedly. "Can you hear me?"

" _Help_ ," Abby's voice sounded more rattled than hurt. "Galian's trapped and I can't get to him."

"Hang on, we're coming. _Don't panic_."

Squawking as she was squeezed a little too hard for comfort, Artis looked around from her secure position under his arm. They were in a very narrow tunnel now, probably no more than a couple of feet wide at best. There were also a tight spiral of stairs running down into the darkness, a darkness that reeked of wet soil and rain. The glow from Mycroft's small lantern was golden-yellow and not terribly bright at best; it did little to cast light ahead, not that there was much ahead to see right now in the stair's spiral. Hopefully, this would change when they reached the bottom.

Mycroft felt the soles of his shoes slide off smoothed stone, slate, by the feel of it. This meant the passage leading from the secret door in the fireplace had been designed not merely to hide someone, but to take them _to_ another, and presumably, safer location. Picking his way through the dark, he wondered idly where that might be, an outbuilding, perhaps? Knowing the woman and her lynx couldn't be that far away based on the volume of her cry for help, Mycroft was not surprised in the least to see Abby crouched over a tumble of timbers and stones and rapidly forming mud, her own lantern providing a faint circle of illumination.

The roof of the tunnel had partly caved in, though there was nothing much to see above it, clearly this part of the tunnel was beyond the house itself and a large amount the volume of water flowing around outside for the last couple of hours had managed to seep its way into the underground system. The woman was one this side of the cave-in, her daemon on the other.

"He said he smelled something metallic in the wall and started digging for it, and then the whole lot just seemed to come down on us, though he's not hurt that I can tell," she said, pulling lumps of mud and stone away with her bare hands, paying no heed whatsoever that she was now plastered in thickly-coating mud. "But he's trapped and wet and frightened and he can't hear me or see me, which is even more scary for both of us," Abby gasped as she heaved a particularly large chunk of rock away, her hair caked to her head from the water running freely down from what was left of the tunnel's roof. There was a widening puddle of water at the base of the muddy slope and she was soaked to the skin.

"Artis, stay here, out of the way," Mycroft leaned back, depositing the big bird on the still relatively dry floor behind them. In another second, he had joined Abby in her fight to remove as much of the debris between them and Galian as possible. There was a heart-rending yowl from the far side of the muddy pile.

"We're coming, Galian, don't be such a big ninny," Abby redoubled her efforts as a large section near the top slid down, creating a very small gap. Too small for either human to get through, but enough for the lynx to paw at. The lynx's yowls grew louder and more distressing.

"Help me, help me, _help me_ ," the daemon cried pitifully as a soggy mass of paw clawed once again at the edge of the gap. "It's cold and wet and I'm all by myself _and I don't like it,_ " the cat sounded perfectly miserable.

There was a dark flutter as Artis launched herself at the top of the pile, her head small enough to fit inside the gap. "They're nearly through, you big baby; pull yourself together and we'll soon be out of here."

" _Artis, get out of the way!_ " Mycroft yelled as he pulled yet another great slab of rock away from the piled heap, just as Abby did the same at the far side.

Suddenly, the bulk of the cave-in seemed to melt away as the soil and clumped mud liquefied in the still-torrential rain.

 _Everything seemed to happen at once_.

The material from the cave-in suddenly began to flow outwards, a tidal wave of slurry, catching everything and everyone in its path, just as the rest of the roof caved in behind it. Abby imagined there was a shimmer of gold in the air just before both lanterns were knocked over by the force of the flowing mud, tumbling stones and flowing water, not to mention a great lump of sodden cat.

Mycroft managed to drag Abby from the path of the fresh infall, protecting her from the worst of the impact with his body, just as Galian wrapped his paws around the big black bird and rolled with her out of the way of the surging mud. The blare of the thunderstorm battered and echoed above their heads and the roar of the rain seemed to be all around. The passage was blocked at both ends now and they were entombed in a muddy pit of filthy water and unspeakable detritus.

"I seem to have banged my head," Mycroft's voice was shaky in her ear, and more than a little surprised. "I have an intense need to close my eyes ... not sure I'm going to be of much use for a while," he mumbled, slumping bonelessly in Abby's arms as she managed to lower his body down to the ground in the dark, making sure she was supporting his head all the while. Now that the lanterns had gone, it was pitch black, so everything had to be done by touch. She knew Galian was okay, just upset and frightened. Abby had no idea where the raven was or how she was.

"Galian? _Artis?_ Can you hear me? Are you alright?"

"Over here!" the lynx sounded as if he were off to the left. "I've got the bird here too; she's a bit woozy by the feel of things, but she's still breathing; can we get someone to come and help us? I don't think we're going to get out of this one by ourselves."

Thankfully, the strap of Abby's bag was still across her chest and she felt inside the small pouch for her phone. It was undamaged and the light from the screen set everything around her in stark relief. Finding Charles Youngham's number, she was never so glad about anything when her Godfather's voice sounded in her ear.

###

"But you really should, you know," Galian's words were muffled as Abby rubbed over his head once more with a dry towel. They were in a large room in the local cottage hospital where they'd eventually ended up for the night. Mycroft had been peeled out of his soaking clothes and Artis bundled up in a thick towel and placed at his side as the man went through the usual x-rays and tests. Concussion, the doctors had said. Unpleasant, and he'd have a bump on his head when he woke up properly, but the best thing was to let him rest and see how things were in the morning. Artis had refused to leave Mycroft's side for an instant and as a consequence, her entire body had become a mass of dried-on crusted mud. She could barely lift her wings, let alone make an attempt to fly.

For some reason, Galian had insisted just as hard that he be allowed to stay with Artis until Mycroft came round, and if the lynx was determined to stay, then Abby had little choice but to stay as well. Joanna Youngham had provided clean clothes for the both of them and Abby had taken the opportunity to shower and dress; dragging the cat into the shower with her to sluice the worst of the muck away. Galian hadn't even protested; at least this water was warm and there would be big warm towels at the end of it all.

Which is why, as his human was drying the last of the dampness from the thick fur at the back of his head, Galian was trying to convince Artis to take a bath.

"The longer you leave it, the worse it's going to be for your feathers, you silly lump," the lynx sounded vaguely concerned. "Just because your human is asleep, doesn't mean you have to sit on him until he wakes up; it might be hours yet."

"Artis, I know you don't want to be away from Mycroft, so we can use the big sink here, if it's any help at all," Abby was swathed in one of Joanna's tracksuits, about three sizes too big, but it was warm and dry, so she had no real complaints. "If you'll allow me to help you, I don't think it'll take much time at all, and just think how much better the both of you with feel afterwards."

Twisting her head to look dolefully at them over her shoulder, the raven sounded awful. "I don't feel well at all," she muttered. "All I want to do is lie here and sleep."

"Then let me help you take a quick bath, and at least you can sleep clean; I'm certain it will help you, I really do."

There was a short silent. "I can't move here," the bird finally responded. "I'm all wrapped up in this muddy cloth and it feels horrible."

"Will you allow me to help you, in that case?" Abby had never knowingly touched a stranger's daemon, not since her third birthday, and that had been her new aunt's beagle, who had not seemed to mind all that much. But the fuss everyone else had made had stuck, and even the idea now of laying hands on somebody else's soul was unnerving, however, the raven couldn't do it for herself and Mycroft was clearly out for the duration.

There was another long pause. "Oh, alright, then," and the raven moved feebly.

"Just lie still; I'll take care of everything, and you'll be lovely and clean and comfortable again for when Mycroft wakes up," Abby was making herself sound far more confident than she felt. Walking over to the hospital bed, she took a deep breath and slid her hands carefully under and around the big bird, lifting and cradling her in the same movement. Artis squawked mournfully.

Laying the still-wrapped bird down beside the wide stainless steel sink, Abby filled it with about three inches of barely warm water to which she added a few drops of a cleaner recommended for babies; no oils, no soap, no perfumes, just something to give a faint lather to help ease out the dirt. She also made sure there was a big pile of clean towels on the other side. Now for the serious stuff ... Easing the wet wrappings off, Artis was eventually revealed in all her grubby glory.

"Oh, you poor thing, you must be freezing," Abby stopped worrying about what she was doing and thought only of how she could make Artis feel better. Sliding her fingers under the bird's wings, she lifted carefully and lowered her towards the water. "It's just warm," she said. "But tell me if you want it hotter or colder before I set you down in it, and I will."

Artis gave a brief shudder as her dangling claws entered the water, but said nothing as she was lowered gently down into the middle of the big sink. Almost instantly, a great cloud of silt turned the water brown.

"Let's just get you wet all over, and when the worst of the mud's gone, I can hold the shower head for you to rinse under," Abby helped the raven extend first one wing and sluice off the worst of the caked-on muck, before repeating the exercise on the other side. With a soft baby's cloth, Abby carefully wiped the feathers around the raven's eyes and beak, a glimpse of shimmering black peeking through the mud.

"Ready for the shower now?" Abby held a hand beneath the bird's body, holding her up as she let the dirty water drain away.

Nibbling Abby's fingers thoughtfully, Artis seemed reasonably happy as the woman thumbed the shower attachment into life, regulating the water flow until a gentle, warming mist covered the sink and its feathered contents. It seemed to be appreciated, as the bird closed her eyes in pleasure, actively participating in the bathing and allowing the human to rinse off every part of her feathers that could be reached.

"I'm sure you'll want to do a really proper job of grooming at some point," Abby observed, shutting the water off and lifting the daemon up and onto a wad of warmed towels, "but at least you're in a better state than you were before." Taking great care to dry the feathers in the correct direction, Abby watched, delighted, as the raven stood up and fluffed her plumage until she looked less like a proud and noble bird, and more like a great black pompom.

Galian had, of course, watched the entire thing with enormous fascination from the other side of the sink. "What's it feel like?" he asked, mesmerised. "To have another human ... you know ..." the cat gave a whole body-wriggle that aptly shaped his question.

"Surprisingly alright, actually," Artis rearranged a couple of wing-feathers. "Like something warm and soothing," she yawned. "But now I'd like to go and sleep. May I trouble you for a lift, please?" she asked the woman, ever polite.

Holding out her arm, Abby held her breath as the raven stepped onto her wrist, her long talons closing tightly but not painfully so. Walking across to the bed, she laid down another thick towel beside the sleeping man, before lowering the daemon down the bed-level. In less than a minute, the bird had shuffled the towelling into an approximate nest, closed her eyes and was snoring.

Standing there, watching the raven with a fond little smile, Abby was caught unawares by Mycroft's sleepy voice. "I had the most wonderful dream," he murmured, his eyes still closed. "As if I was standing in the sunshine ... lovely ..."

There was no more; he'd gone back to sleep as well.

###

It was less than a week later, when Abby was about to head home from her small office which, as manager of the National Trust's new Victorian conservation program in London, entitled her to a wonderful, though tiny view overlooking Grosvenor Square. Abby had printed off several emails from the Younghams about the small box of trove that Galian had unwittingly discovered in his mad hunt for mechanical metal in the passage, so she hadn't been imagining things. Apparently, there were more than fifty heavy gold Louis d'or in absolutely mint condition, obviously hidden away there by supporters of some Scottish claimant to the British throne in the later seventeenth century when Baines had built the secret passage behind the fireplace. The coins were in such excellent condition that the initial appraisal had the trove's value up into six-figures; more than enough to make all the necessary repairs to Croften Hall, with enough left over for less critical but nonetheless pleasing beautifications. She'd already been invited back for another party, once the repairs had been completed. The Younghams were thrilled, all was well and life was good.

The sun was still shining brightly, and she quite fancied having an early dinner at one of the new outdoor eateries that kept popping up all over the city. On reaching the pavement, she noticed a rather swish-looking black Jaguar parked in the Director-General's spot. Know exactly what the D-G usually drove, and knowing just as exactly that it happened _not_ to be a princely black Jag, Abby grinned. " _Someone's_ going to be in trouble," she nudged Galian with her leg. "Come on, you; let's go and find somewhere nice and healthy and sunny, so I can eat and you can watch people."

About to walk right past the shiny black car, the pair stopped as the nearside door opened and ... Artis jumped out onto the pavement at their feet. "Good greetings, my Lady Abigale," the raven bowed formally, before standing up and walking over to a baffled cat.

"Apologies, Artis has been reading Shakespeare again," Mycroft Holmes stood on the pavement just behind his effusive daemon. "She always gets a little theatrical."

"Please ignore him, he's been both a knave and a poltroon today," Artis sniffed dismissively.

"Both a knave _and_ a poltroon?" Abby laughed at Mycroft's forbearing expression. "My, you have been busy."

"And now here I am wondering if I might take you to dinner, a means by which to thank you for taking care of this wretched bird of mine," he smiled faintly. "I've had the whole story and I must say that Artis makes you out as something of a saviour, so please do accept my invitation," he paused. "Unless you have a prior engagement, of course?"

"No," Abby shook her head, watching as Artis leaned companionably against Galian's shoulder, half expecting the lynx to growl or shrug the bird away. But the two daemons seemed perfectly happy together; in fact, they looked as thick as thieves. How very odd. "No other plans; I was on my way to find a place right now."

"I took the liberty of booking a table at the Connaught at seven, if that's at all suitable?" Mycroft raised both eyebrows, checking his Hunter as he opened the rear door of the Jaguar. "Perhaps we could have a cocktail before?"

Abby laughed again. "I've no idea what Artis has been telling you, but whatever it was she says I did, it was nothing that might merit dinner at the Connaught, besides," she said. "I'm hardly dressed for such a stylish spot."

"Forsooth, my lady is most becomingly apparelled," Artis warbled. Galian made a face but still, did nothing. Odder and odderer. If anything, the lynx exuded an unusual excitement.

"Then we can easily detour to your flat, enabling you to change and Artis to indulge her unconscionable sense of curiosity," Mycroft paused. "Or are we simply being far too forward here?"

"Not in the least," Abby smiled again. "Though I do appear to be getting the best of the bargain," she added, stepping into the car as Mycroft held the door for her. Galian clambered in, curling around her legs. The cat seemed strangely wound-up. If Abby had had to put a word to the sensation, she would have said the daemon was _anticipating_ something, though what it might be, there was no clue.

Her flat was on the second floor of a huge old Victorian house, with generous ceilings, a couple of large bay windows and extraordinarily polished floorboards. The house was actually one of the reasons she had landed the National Trust job, as she'd helped restore the old house as part of her tenancy agreement.

"Make yourself comfortable; won't be a tick," she called, heading for her bedroom and something smart but cool to wear on such a warm evening. In less than five minutes, she was ready; changed her dress and shoes, grabbed an evening bag and was just walking back into the front room when she stopped, staring at the tableau that faced her from the settee.

Mycroft sat in the centre of the old leather Chesterfield. Artis on one side, grinning the way she did and ... Galian on the other.

"I really want to know, please don't be cross," the lynx sounded wistful. "Can I?"

"I let you," Artis nodded. "It seems only fair."

Abby caught her breath. This was not something she had planned to happen any time soon. If ever, in fact. "If you must," she inhaled slowly, nodding. "And if Mycroft doesn't mind."

"It appears we have both been outwitted and ambushed," the tall man held himself stiffly, his arms wide and unmoving as the cat leaned closer and closer. At her nod, he began to lower his arms.

Abby felt a warmth rising in her chest, her breath stalling as Galian placed one foot and then another on Mycroft's thigh before leaning in even more and resting his head against the man's chest. Watching as Mycroft's arm descended in what felt like incredibly slow motion, as his arm came down ... and down ... and down ...

A great feeling of warmth and pleasure emanated from Galian as he rested, for the first time in his existence, within the embrace of another human. As the feeling of warmth rose up and filled her, Abby sought an adjective for the sensation, wonderful and solid and gleaming inside. It was gold, she decided. It felt like _gold_.


End file.
